


Look On Up

by Anonymous



Series: Stupid Deep [6]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: ?? - Freeform, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Big Dick Richie Tozier, Dirty Talk, Double Penetration, Drama, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mirror Sex, Overstimulation, Porn With Plot, Size Kink, but now with ADDED PLOT THAT NO ONE ASKED FOR, do i tag this, guess who's BACK BABIE, it's like angst and then fluff and then SEX, it's reddie and they're HAVING SEX
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-18 02:56:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21770638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: There’s a little wrapped package in Eddie’s coat pocket. He tries not to think about it too deeply. He has, after all, been carrying it around for months.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Stupid Deep [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1512914
Comments: 150
Kudos: 1109
Collections: Anonymous





	Look On Up

**Author's Note:**

> this fic fought me tooth and nail all the way so if you're disappointed just know that so am i. this fic doesn't even really fit in with the series timeline but just ignore that. this is the new canon.

The thing about Richie and Eddie is that they aren’t romantic. 

They say romantic shit, kind of, sort of. Mostly they argue and swear at each other and call each other names—lovingly—but they definitely say sappy shit sometimes. But they don’t really _do_ romantic _things._ They don’t really...go on dates, or have Moments. And that’s fine. Eddie’s very happy. They hang out and go out for food and watch movies and have sex and cook meals together and it’s nice. Domestic, relaxed, and nice. 

The problem with it is, Eddie has no idea how to do something romantic in this context. When he is supposed to do something as romantic as propose—arguably the most inherently romantic gesture in existence—if any attempt to set the scene for it will be glaringly obvious and out of place? When’s a right time when every moment is equally as special, and therefore _not_ special, as the last? 

And the compounded problem is that Richie obviously doesn’t know when the right time to propose is, either, and is therefore ever-vigilant, and seems to get unbearably anxious every single time he thinks he could possibly happen. 

It starts out endearing, if a little ridiculous. Every drawn-out silence or tender moment being cut abruptly short with nervous laughter and/or a hasty retreat. It’s cute, the idea that Richie can’t tell when Eddie’s going to propose but is anticipating it and it makes him nervous. Unnecessary, but cute. 

And then, after a while, Eddie has to admit that it gets worrying—especially the running away bit. They’ll be watching a movie together on the couch, and it’ll end, and the credits will roll, and there’ll be a minute of pleasant, sleepy silence. Eddie will be happy, content, not even anywhere close to thinking about rings and questions. And then he’ll feel Richie get tense next to him, like he’s scared, and Eddie will look over at him, about to ask what’s wrong, and he’ll see it in Richie’s eyes—the nervous anticipation. And then Eddie will open his mouth and inhale, and Richie will bolt, making some excuse, saying he has to get up early the next morning or he has to shower or some shit. 

Or he’ll haul ass out of bed after they have sex, the second Eddie hums and wants to say something, effectively cutting out any sense of afterglow, much less pillow talk. It’s absurd. And it’s kind of _scary._ Eddie could understand, maybe, him being nervous. It’s a big thing. For both of them. But the _avoidance?_ That’s what gets him. Richie isn’t just acting like he doesn’t know what to do. He’s acting like he doesn’t _want it._ And Eddie’s not sure how to deal with that. 

And then life gets more hectic. Richie starts his latest tour, which means he’s away, travelling, every other week, and it’s just not feasible for Eddie to go with him. So Richie is gone half the time, and when he’s home, he’s tired and stressed and on edge. They snap at each other more, and not in a cute way. Reunion sex gets _significantly_ less passionate. Eddie misses Richie desperately when he’s gone, but when they’re together things are...tense. Strained. And Richie keeps running away. 

But the distance is making things worse. Eddie is 80% sure of it. The distance, and the stress. Things would get better, he thinks, if they spent more time together, and had a chance to relax. And maybe talk. Not that Richie ever lets them talk about anything even vaguely serious. His mouth is always running, but all that ever comes out is useless shit. God, it’s a whole mess. 

But Eddie thinks—hopes— _desperately_ hopes—that these past months weren’t just a honeymoon phase of happiness. He hopes that they won’t be like _this_ for the rest of forever. He won’t believe it. He can’t. They just need a break. 

An opportunity arrives right before the holidays. Richie has a final show on the 21st in Milwaukee. Two hours from the city, Patty Uris’s family has a huge cabin in the bluffs of Wisconsin. The Losers are all congregating there for the holidays, since for the most part, none of them have any desire to be with their blood relatives. This, at last, is Eddie’s chance to...relax, and decide what he wants to do. This is their chance to bounce back. He can feel it. 

There’s a little wrapped package in Eddie’s coat pocket. He tries not to think about it too deeply. He has, after all, been carrying it around for months.

***

Things get off to a rocky start, if Eddie’s being honest.

The show in Milwaukee isn’t exactly Richie’s best. A lot of people still come to Richie’s shows expecting the same Richie Tozier from before Derry. And his material has changed a lot since then, not just in tone but also in content. Eddie doesn’t get to go to a lot of Richie’s shows, so he usually only really knows what Richie tells him, but this one seems to go worse than usual from the beginning. A couple of obviously-drunk hecklers, a very palpable sense of discomfort when Richie brings up his boyfriend, a struggle from Richie to not falter. Parts of it still land really well, it’s not a total wipe or anything, but it doesn’t go fantastically. Dread builds in Eddie’s gut, that this is how they’re going to start off their vacation. 

Richie’s exaggeratedly loud after the show, laughing too raucously, brushing off any of Eddie’s questions with forced casualness. His smile is too wide and too fake. Any silence is quickly filled with bad jokes and inane chatter. He pretends not to be bothered. Eddie is so far from convinced it’s painful. 

They stay the night in a hotel—Richie claims he’s too tired to get up to anything other than sleep. Eddie feels him tossing and turning late into the night regardless. And then in the morning they pack their things into the rental car and start driving. 

It was already bitterly cold and slush-grey when they got to Milwaukee, but it snowed overnight, and is still snowing now, as they wend through roads half-covered in swirling crystalline dust. It’s piling up slowly, two inches and then three, four. Sometimes they take roads that plows have already gone over. Closer to the end, they don’t. 

Eddie is a good driver. He can handle rush hour traffic and people trying to merge at the last second and random pedestrians on the street. He swears at them, but he can handle them. He’s very good at driving stick and parallel parking between two big-ass SUVs and backing out of driveways. And when he lived in New York, he was good at avoiding black ice and knowing how not to hydroplane, and extra good at staying inside when the weather got rough. 

Eddie’s a good driver, but he fucking hates driving in snow. And right now they’re in a dinky little car that probably doesn’t even have snow tires and he’s not that familiar with the fucking handling and they’re driving uphill through rough, unplowed, unsalted terrain and Richie won’t shut the _fuck_ up. 

“—And I just don’t get it, you know? I mean, you like what you like, that’s fine, but also can you really argue that you like something if it makes you miserable? That’s what I don’t get. She says she likes it but all she does is complain about it. And then she spends _money_ on it. It’s self-sabotage! Eddie, isn’t it self-sabotage?”

Eddie grits his teeth, knuckles white around the steering wheel. “Richie, honestly, just— What the fuck are you even talking about?”

Richie blinks at him for a second, silent, like not even he knows. “Uh. That video I watched about the. The girl. And the wellness shit.” 

Eddie shakes his head, keeping his eyes glued to the road. “Can you just, like, not talk? For five minutes? I’m trying to drive.”

“ _I’m_ not driving, though, so why does it matter if I talk?” Richie asks. “I could, you know. Drive. If you let me.”

“I don’t trust you to drive me anywhere on a good day,” Eddie says through his teeth. “Stop talking because it’s distracting.”

“Oh, don’t worry, you don’t have to listen to me.”

“I’m not,” Eddie says. “Stop talking because it’s _annoying_ , holy shit. All day, you just talk about god knows what, for fucking hours on end.”

“Don’t be a little shit, Eds,” Richie snaps. “I’m always like this.”

“No, you’re fucking not,” Eddie mutters, and navigates a slippery turn with his breath held. 

The thing is, Richie is always like this, kind of. Rarely a fucking moment of silence. And usually Eddie _likes_ it. He likes Richie’s nonstop chatter. It’s just a part of who he is. But recently it’s seemed...like a nervous tic, more than anything. A compulsion, more than just being cursed with a loud mouth and ADHD. Like he doesn’t want to give Eddie a chance to say something. 

Eddie just wishes he knew _why_. But at the same time, he’s terrified that he really doesn’t. 

By some miracle, they make it to the cabin in one piece, without sliding off the road and into a ditch or, more likely, down a fucking cliff. The wind around them as they step out into the snow is blustery and bitterly cold, and Richie and Eddie grab their things and haul it all inside as quickly as possible, using the key the Blums left them under a heavy flower pot on the front porch. 

It’s a beautiful cabin, all things said. Big, rustic, stately, but with the added benefit of central heating and pristine bathrooms. There are three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a very functional pull-out couch. Stan and Patty will be taking the master bed, but other than that Eddie and Richie have the pick of the litter from the rest—the others won’t be getting here for another two days, until Christmas Eve. The place is theirs, until then. Eddie thought that might be good. He thought that might be what they need.

Now, he’s kind of unsure. Richie rushes in ahead of Eddie, leaving him to drag everything left in the car in by himself, shoes slipping over the icy walkway. 

“Where’s the thermostat in this place?” Richie calls from a hallway. “I’m a California Girl, Trademark Katy Perry, I can’t handle this cold!”

“You grew up in Maine, dipshit,” Eddie says, dropping their things on the floor inside. 

“Yeah, three decades ago! I’m old and frail and cold now.” Eddie can hear the hum of the heater turning on. 

Eddie rolls his eyes, shrugging out of his coat, hanging it up on the coatrack next to where Richie’s dumped his on the floor. Like a fucking child. 

“Eds, let’s take this room!” Richie hollers. “It looks cozy!”

Eddie grabs their bags, and leaves Richie’s coat on the floor. Serves him right—Eddie hopes it gets soggy in the puddles left by his shoes. 

Richie’s standing in the doorway to the bedroom next to the second bathroom, at the end of the hall. It’s not huge, but it’s not cramped either, all dark wood and burgundy linens, with a huge dresser at the foot of the bed under a massive mirror that makes the room look bigger than it is. The walls are exposed wood stained a warm brown, like Richie’s coffee after he’s put three creams in it, and the curtains are heavy, and the rug on the hardwood floor looks soft and lush. It’s a nice room. 

“I saw the other room,” Richie says, grinning. “It had bunkbeds. Do you think Mike and Bill will take it, or Bev and Ben?”

Eddie snorts softly. “I’m surprised you didn’t try to.”

“As if I can sleep a wink without you in bed with me, Eddie-bear,” Richie coos obnoxiously. 

_My presence didn’t seem to help you last night,_ Eddie wants to say, but doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You sleep in a different bed than me 50% of the time these days, Rich.”

“Yes, and it guts me every time,” Richie says with a very fake sniffle.

Eddie rolls his eyes, and almost wishes Richie actually meant it.

***

Eddie had big, stupid plans for this winter vacation.

Nothing really specific, honestly. He didn’t plan activities or have detailed daydreams about the cookies they would bake together or the fireplaces they would roast marshmallows over. He just. He had this vision of things _falling into place._ Of them spending time together and talking and everything being...comfortable and easy. As if, somehow, the change of scenery would knock them out of whatever weird rut they’ve been in. 

It’s kind of strange, in a way. Eddie has _never_ been an optimist. He’s not sure why he chose now to try his hand at it. 

They arrive shortly before lunchtime, so as soon as Eddie’s done putting away their clothes and making Richie change the sheets on the bed, they’re both hungry and quickly realizing they didn’t think about the fact that a grocery store would be quite so inaccessible. So they raid the pantry, throw together an instant rice meal with very little nutritional value. Eddie makes a mental note to look up how long it takes to develop scurvy later. 

And in the background, Richie has a running bit going, something about a neighbour with a dog, which Eddie knows is all bullshit because Richie’s never talked about a dog before and none of their neighbours in the past year and a half has had one that made a peep. 

It’s not the lying that’s worrying. Richie does this all the time—makes shit up or exaggerates the truth for the sake of a bit he thinks would be funny. It’s the _incessant noise._ He barely takes a breath, talking through mouthfuls of food until he’s practically red in the face. 

“Rich, can you just shut the fuck up and eat?” Eddie sighs, after the third time Richie almost chokes to death. 

“I’m _eating_ ,” Richie says, shovelling more rice into his mouth. 

“I know you’re eating, it’s everything else that you’re trying to do at the same time that’s killing me.”

Richie makes a childish face at him. “You’re just a bundle of joy every day, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“You already knew this when we hooked up.”

Richie snorts, and almost chokes a fourth time. “ _Hooked up_ ,” he scoffs, when he’s no longer at death’s door. “Is that what we’ve been doing this whole time?”

Eddie’s tempted to say something petty and stupid, but knows that’ll just make everything worse. “I didn’t know what else to call it,” he admits, tapping his fork against the edge of his plate. “Started dating?”

Richie laughs, like the phrase brings him actual joy. “Just say _got together. Dating_ makes us sound like we’re in high school.”

“You’re the one who still uses _boyfriend,”_ Eddie points out. 

“Better than _husband,”_ Richie says with a grin. 

Eddie knows, he _knows,_ that it’s just a dumb jab at the whole coworker debacle, and the fact that Eddie still hasn’t corrected any of his colleagues. But it still stings. He swallows thickly. “Give me your plate,” he says, standing up. “I’ll wash up.”

Either Richie can tell he fucked up or he just wants an excuse to have something to keep him occupied that isn’t talking to Eddie, because he snatches Eddie’s dishes out from under him and says, “Nah, I’ll do it. You go do some cryotherapy or some shit.”

“Is that a thing?” Eddie asks, giving in instantly when Richie bounces over to kiss his forehead distractedly before whisking their things to the kitchen. 

“It really is!” Richie calls back from the kitchen, over the rush of the sink. “I mean, I think it’s mostly for medical stuff, but rich people do all sorts of shit.”

“ _You’re_ a rich person, dumbass.”

“I’m a new brand of rich person, called _not rich enough to do crazy dumb shit, but rich enough that people look at you weird when you wear ugly ass clothes.”_ Eddie can hear the grin in his voice. “But Eds, honey, if you ever want to do some weird kind of new age therapy, you just gotta ask. I’ll support you baby.”

Eddie smiles a little, privately. He’s at the point of his life where the idea of sharing a bank account with Richie feels kind of romantic. It’s embarrassing. 

Not that Richie was even implying that.

And the day continues like that, endlessly. Richie pissing Eddie off, Eddie feeling like shit for being pissed off, and then Richie being a little cute and endearing himself to Eddie again, and making him Think Things, and also Doubt Everything. 

They go on a walk in the afternoon, during which Richie tells Eddie all about a podcast he hasn’t even _listened to_ but has apparently heard all about, and then two different TEDTalks he has also either watched or maybe just heard about, and then about some bullshit Hollywood drama, and then about a movie list he saw and doesn’t agree with. All of this while Eddie pretends to be taking in what _could_ be a tranquil wintry vista, but Eddie may never know, because Richie will never stop talking for even one second. 

And then they go inside and make tea from bags that look suspiciously old and drink it while they watch bad daytime TV even though they could be watching Netflix, and Richie keeps up an obnoxious running commentary the entire time, and afterwards he kisses Eddie’s neck and squeezes his ass and Eddie lets him. Eddie lets him because he fucking _loves him_ and this is the closest they ever get to normal these days. And Eddie so desperately wants things to just be normal. 

He wakes up the next morning when sunlight from the window spills across their bed. It’s probably something like nine in the morning—he’s still running on California time. He’s well-rested, and the bed is warm, soft. He turns, and Richie is there, still asleep, mouth hanging open a little. His hair is all over the place, and he’s drooling onto his pillow, and his bare shoulders are freckled where they’re peeking out of the blankets. 

Eddie sighs, and shifts closer. Richie always looks terrible in the morning, and he’s not a cute sleeper, and sometimes it makes Eddie love him so much that it’s painful. His knees knock up against Richie’s, and he trails his fingertips up Richie’s bare torso, over warm skin and his broad chest, along his throat up to his jaw. He brushes his fingers through Richie’s messy hair, and thumbs over his stubbly cheek, and then leans in and kisses the space between his eyes, warm and lingering. 

Richie’s eyes flutter open as Eddie pulls away, and Eddie smiles, presses another kiss to his mouth. 

“Mmmm,” Richie hums. “Morning.”

His voice is low and rough and hot when he wakes up. Eddie kisses him again, and then pulls back to look at his face, his shiny eyes, his lazy smile. The sun is slanting across his skin beautifully. Eddie touches the corner of his lips, wanting him so badly it’s stupid. For a moment, everything feels perfect. He inhales. 

And then something flashes in Richie’s eyes in the long, slow silence, something like panic, and he sits up hastily. “Well,” he says, “I should go make breakfast, huh?”

Eddie frowns. “You don’t have to. We literally have nowhere to be.”

“No, I want to,” Richie says. “You stay in bed.” And he leans over, kisses Eddie’s forehead, and slides out of bed to slip out into the hall. 

Eddie sighs. So fucking much for that. 

Breakfast is, once again, stilted. They’re eating instant oatmeal from the pantry, and Eddie is missing fruits and vegetables. Richie is inhaling his food like he’s in a race to get out of the kitchen. 

“Are we under attack?” Eddie asks blithely. 

“Huh?”

Eddie gestures at his bowl, nearly empty. “Are you expecting someone to come and steal your food from under your nose? Are you an orphan living with sixteen other siblings fighting over the last bean?”

Richie stares at him for a long moment. “Eds, I literally always eat like this.”

“Oh, fuck off, no you don’t,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. 

“I do! I’m a human vacuum. Do you know how many times I’ve been looked at weird at events?”

“That’s impossible, because I would have noticed by now,” Eddie insists. 

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe you’re just obsessed with me.”

Eddie huffs, and lets it go. Maybe Richie’s right. Maybe he’s just...looking into things too deeply. “What are we doing today?” he asks instead. 

“I dunno. Just relaxing, I guess. Enjoying that...brisk mountain air. I think there might be a hot tub?” Richie wiggles his eyebrows at Eddie across the table. “We can have sex in the hot tub.”

“Literally, Rich, I would die before having sex in a hot tub, much less _someone else’s_ hot tub,” Eddie says flatly. “Not a fucking chance.”

“Eddie, Eddie, Eddie,” Richie sighs. “You are just so boring. Far too much of a bore for me.”

Normally, Richie saying something like that would barely even register. Recently, Eddie wonders if maybe it’s a sign. 

They do get into the hot tub later in the day, though, and it’s nice for about ten minutes until Richie seems to realize that it’s very quiet and peaceful and he has to fill every moment of silence with more fucking chatter. God forbid they just enjoy each other’s company, or have a moment of quiet tenderness. And usually Eddie wouldn't _care._ Usually Eddie would say shit right back at him. But the nervous tension in Richie's shoulders is killing him. And Richie keeps avoiding eye contact.

The same thing happens on the couch in the afternoon, when Eddie’s trying to read. And again when they spend an hour putting up lights around the cabin. Panic, chatter, avoidance. He’s getting on every single one of Eddie’s fucking nerves. And _why?_ For what? Because of something Eddie’s increasingly sure isn’t going to happen?

He’s bound to reach his breaking point eventually. And he does. Because he has to. 

They’re in the living room after supper. Eddie was trying to read again, Richie was pretending to watch TV and fell asleep with his head in Eddie’s lap. It is, for once, quiet. Eddie’s turned off the TV. Richie is making soft, breathy sounds. It’s nice. It’s domestic, and cute. 

Richie starts to stir. Eddie smiles a little, and puts down his book. He cards his fingers through Richie’s hair. “Hello, Sleeping Beauty.”

Richie makes a long, miserable sound. “Can I go back to sleep?”

“No. You’re just fucking up your sleep schedule even more. And my leg’s asleep.”

Richie turns his head and kisses against the top of Eddie’s thigh, as if in apology. “But that’s my favourite leg,” he mumbles nonsensically. 

Eddie snorts. “Get up, you lazy shit.”

“No,” Richie yawns. “Scratch my head.”

“You dumb dog,” Eddie says, and then scratches his head anyway, like he’s a vaguely annoying but lovable pet. 

Richie hums, and smiles, and turns onto his back, eyes closed. Eddie touches his cheek gently and scratches along his hairline, and thinks about kissing him, if he can bend his spine enough for it. Probably not. He runs his fingernails against the grain of Richie’s scruff instead, scratches over a grey hair there. Eddie’s going to blow a gasket when he’s properly all salt-and-pepper scruffy. Hot as fuck. 

“Richie,” he says softly, meaning to tell Richie he’s going to have to shave soon, or else he’ll give Eddie a rash again. His skin is sensitive as hell. 

But Richie’s eyes snap open, wide and scared. “Huh?”

Eddie frowns. “I just wanted to—”

Richie sits bolt upright. “Actually, I should—”

And that’s it. Eddie can’t take it anymore. 

He reaches out and snags the back of Richie’s shirt, before he can go anywhere. “Rich, what the fuck?” he snaps. 

Richie turns, visibly spooked, to look at him. “What?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Eddie demands. “Am I not allowed to talk to you? Are we not allowed to have a fucking moment of peace?”

Richie’s throat bobs. “I don’t know what you—”

“Yes you fucking do, don’t even start with me,” Eddie says. “Why are you so scared of me?”

Richie shakes his head immediately. “I’m not, I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do! You’re not fucking subtle, okay, just. Every single time I try to talk to you, you do _this_. You play dumb, and you say stupid shit, and just. What is your fucking problem?”

“I don’t have a problem,” Richie insists. 

“You _do,”_ Eddie hisses. His stomach turns anxiously. “Look, okay, listen. Would you feel better if I promised not to—not to do anything? Is that what you want? For me to promise I absolutely will not do anything to tie you down?”

Richie blinks at him with huge, terrified eyes. “Eds—”

“I’m sorry, okay?” Eddie says, feeling so sick he worries he’ll throw up. “I’m sorry I brought it up, what, fucking...six months ago. I didn’t know it would do _this_. But I’m reading you loud and clear, you fucking idiot. You couldn’t have just told me you didn’t want it? Instead of playing this dumbass game? _God.”_

Richie doesn’t say anything, for fucking once—just stares at Eddie and looks like he’d rather be doing anything but talking about this. Fuck. 

“I’m going for a walk,” Eddie says abruptly, standing up and walking to the door. “I’ll be outside. Just...I’m _fucking_ sorry, okay? I won’t bring it up again. You can relax.”

It’s cold as fucking balls outside, the winter wind whipping straight through Eddie’s coat, hastily grabbed from the rack. Snow soaks through his shoes almost instantly as he steps off the porch onto the driveway, and he slips and slides over to the little path that leads into the trees that surround it on three sides. The sky is clear tonight, and the moon is bright—at least he can see where he’s going, the light of it reflecting off the snow. Still cold as all fuck, but Eddie stuffs his hands into his pockets, keeps his head down. The biting wind is almost welcome, soothing the burn of his skin, the pounding of his head, replacing it with a different kind of discomfort. 

After a minute, he breaks out of the trees, into a clearing pressed up against a cliff. There’s a bench there, overlooking the craggy dips and bluffs. The sky stretches out in front of him, littered with thousands of stars, and his breath fogs in front of his mouth as he collapses onto the bench. Tears are still stinging at his eyes, and he blinks them back angrily. This is all just so fucking dumb. He’s not even sure why he’s this upset. So what if Richie doesn’t want it? It’s not like he fucking...broke up with Eddie. Or told him to move out. He just—god. So what if he makes fun of Eddie for calling Richie his husband at work forever? Fucking _stupid._

He hears the door open and close in the distance, over the whistling of the wind, the soft sounds of the trees at night. And then, a minute later, the crunching of shoes in snow. Eddie sighs and wipes his eyes quickly. After a moment, Richie sits down on the bench beside him. 

Neither of them talks, at first. It’s just silent. Some of the first they’ve had in a while. Eddie sighs again. 

Richie sniffs. “Sorry,” he says, voice quiet in the hush of the night. 

Eddie shrugs stiffly. The moon is fucking huge above them. Eddie’s face is going numb in the cold. “For what?”

“For being a dumbass,” Richie says. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“You’re a dumbass, that’s what’s wrong,” Eddie mutters. 

Richie scoffs. “Yeah. I don’t know. God, everything is so dumb. I don’t know why I’m so scared.”

Eddie shakes his head. “I won’t do it,” he says, more firmly than he did the first time. “Rich, it’s fine. We don’t have to.”

“No, that’s the dumbest fucking part! Eddie. I _want to.”_

Eddie’s heart jumps. “What?”

He looks at Richie for the first time. Richie looks resolutely down at his feet. “I fucking want to, so I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m acting so dumb. I’m just _nervous.”_ He swallows audibly. “I feel like I don’t fucking. Know how to do things like this. I’ve never _done_ something like this.” His eyes flick up once, just for a second, and then quickly away. “I’ve never gotten to _keep things_ before. I don’t know how to do this. I feel like I’m going to do it wrong.”

Eddie’s breath hitches in his chest. Blood rushes in his ears. He feels, for the first time in too long, a little bit hopeful. “You are,” he says. 

Richie blinks. “Huh?”

“You are gonna do it wrong,” Eddie tells him. “We do everything wrong. We’re so fucking dumb, Rich. I don’t care.”

Richie sniffles softly and laughs a little, rubbing at his face. “It’s also getting worse with time,” he says, and then rubs at his chest like it’s hurting. Eddie knows the feeling. “I just, I’m always scared, all the time, and I know it’s for no goddamn reason, but I can’t help it. And the longer it takes, the more scared I am, to the point where like. I don’t know if I want it to just happen or if I’m hoping it won’t.” His breath clouds in front of his face on a sigh. “I don’t know. Very cruel of you to make me think about it and then do absolutely nothing to act on it, including like. Ask my fucking ring size.”

Eddie huffs, shoulders slumping. “Yeah,” he says. “I might be a coward, too. If we’re being honest here.”

“At least you’re aware of it,” Richie mutters. 

Eddie shrugs, clenches his numb hands in his coat pockets. “I’m sorry. I could have like...addressed the issue. But I was scared of the answer.”

“You didn’t seem scared today,” Richie says. 

Eddie laughs. “I was terrified,” he says. “I was just also pissed off. You were fucking up everything.”

“I tend to do that,” Richie says. “Did you cry?”

“None of your fucking business,” Eddie says with a small smile. “I’m sorry, Rich. For real. This was my fault, too.”

Richie shrugs. “Just a couple of dumbasses. It’s okay. At least _you_ eventually said something about it.”

“Yeah, you were no help at that.” Eddie’s smile twitches wider. “Hey. Kiss me?”

Richie looks at him with eyes that are infinitely kinder than Eddie deserves. He leans in, and Eddie meets him halfway, kisses him softly in the watery moonlight, warm there where their mouths connect. Richie’s facial hair is too itchy, and the rest of Eddie is too fucking cold, especially where his cheeks are still a little damp, but it’s good. It’s so good. It’s the first kiss Eddie hasn’t been scared of ending in months. 

Richie sighs, and licks at his lower lip, and then holds Eddie’s winter-chilled face in his hands and pulls back to say, “Eds. Honestly. I’m happy just to get to be with you. Every day. Even when one or both of us are being stupid ass fuckers. It doesn’t matter how—I’m just happy to be with you. For as long as you’ll have me.”

Eddie smiles against his lips, and curls his hands in his pockets. “Well,” he says. “It’ll be forever.”

He can feel the little hitch of breath against his mouth, and kisses it right off him. “Eds,” Richie says wetly. 

Eddie pulls his face gently out of Richie’s hands and scoots back on the bench. Richie’s face is red and splotchy in the moonlight. Eddie doesn’t tear his gaze away from Richie’s as he slides off the bench and onto one knee, right there in the fucking snow. 

Richie stares at him, eyes comically wide, hands still hovering in midair. “Eddie?”

Eddie pulls a package out of his coat pocket. It crinkles in his hand. 

Richie blinks at it, jaw hanging open. “Eddie?” he says again, much more incredulously. “Are you seriously proposing to me right now? With a fucking Ring Pop?”

Eddie grins, tearing the wrapper open. His heart thunders wildly against his ribs. “It’s just temporary. Why should you get two rings? We’ll have real ones at the wedding. If you say yes.”

Tears are now shining very obviously on Richie’s cheeks. The crybaby. “Of course I’m saying yes?” he says, voice too high and too loud. “ _Eddie?_ ”

Eddie laughs now, the emotions too big to fit in his lungs. The Ring Pop is shaking in his hands, and it’s not just from the cold. “You drive me absolutely crazy every single day. I love it, even when I hate it. And I suspect that’ll be the case for the rest of our lives.” The words are coming so much easier than Eddie ever thought they would. God, he was so dumb. “But I fucking love you. Like, a scary amount. So let’s get married.”

“I fucking _will_ ,” Richie says, reaching for him. Eddie doesn’t even care that that doesn’t make sense. “Holy shit. Give me that fucking _ring._ ” 

As it is, the ring is dropped in the snow within seconds, as Eddie is dragged unceremoniously back up onto the bench and into Richie’s lap. And Eddie doesn’t really care all that much anyway—he only got it in the first place to make Richie laugh. And he’s laughing now, as he kisses Eddie absolutely senseless, hands pressing into Eddie’s back through his coat, running through his hair, cradling his face. And Eddie laughs back, and then focuses on their mouths slotting together, tongues sliding. God, they could have done this fucking _ages_ ago. But of course they had to be morons about it first. Of course they did. Everything up until now went _way_ too smoothly. They were long overdue for some dumbassery. 

“God,” Richie breathes against his mouth. “I love you so fucking much. But it is cold as _hell_.” 

Eddie laughs, and starts struggling to get up. “Come on,” he says, grabbing Richie’s hand, the snowy Ring Pop. “Let’s go inside.”

Richie’s eyes flash, and for once not with panic. “Fuck, yeah. Gotta go...warm up my fucking fiance.”

Eddie grins, the title rocking through him like a physical blow. “Yeah, let’s fucking _go_.”

***

They manage to make it inside without wiping out in the snow, but the second they’re through the door, Richie’s hands are all over Eddie, pushing off his coat, pressing up against him, and Eddie can barely keep his footing.

“ _Rich_ ,” he says, laughing, trying to kick off one wet shoe. “Stop, I’m going to end up on the floor, it’s all slippery.”

“I don’t mind,” Richie says, pushing freezing cold hands up under Eddie’s shirt. Eddie almost karate chops him in the neck. “We’ll do it on the floor.”

“Oh, no we fucking won’t,” Eddie says, grinning as Richie sucks at the hinge of his jaw. “It’s wet and disgusting. Which is also how I’d describe my socks right now, so please let go of me so I can get them off.”

“I’ll peel all your clothes off for you,” Richie says, voice low, one hand at the waist of his jeans. 

“Yeah, great, but can we go to our bedroom or something for that?”

Richie huffs a laugh against his throat. “Or something, Mr. Kaspbrak? You got other ideas?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, pressing his ice cold hand into Richie’s stomach to make him yelp. “No. Bedroom. _Now.”_

Richie’s eyes go a little glassy behind his fogged-up glasses, and he kicks off his shoes to get moving. 

Eddie’s never really loved having sex in unfamiliar beds—something about it always makes him feel like they’re not really alone, like he’s plagued by the ghosts of everyone else who’s ever had sex here, or maybe just by the idea of someone walking in on them—but right now he’s far from thinking about that, as Richie pushes him gently down on top of their dark red comforter to start stripping off his sodden socks. Eddie hums, and smiles, and works on his belt and then the button of his jeans, and lets Richie peel those off too a few seconds later. There are two warm yellow lamps on in their room, and more light comes in through the open doorway from the hall, so it’s not dark, but it’s not glaringly bright either. He can hear the wind whistling outside, rattling through the trees, but it’s so warm here, where Richie is pulling off his shirt and kneeling to kiss up Eddie’s legs where they’re hanging over the edge of the mattress. 

Eddie reaches out for him. “Get up here,” he says. “I want to kiss my fiance.”

Richie makes a low sound and scrambles up onto the bed, over Eddie’s body. He’s so big, covering Eddie completely, broad and thick. Eddie hums and touches his sides, his stomach, his chest, and leans up to kiss him deeply, licks into his mouth indulgently. 

Richie groans, lowering himself on top of Eddie, grinding their hips together. It’s a little painful—Richie’s still in jeans, and the zip is rough through the thin cotton of Eddie’s boxer briefs—but mostly it’s just _good._ Eddie’s not hard yet, but he’s going to get there quickly. 

“God, Eds, you’re so fucking hot,” Richie sighs, cupping his cheeks with both hands, kissing him sloppily. “It’s actually kind of unfair, you’re so hot, people our age aren’t supposed to be hot. You’re supposed to be gross like me.”

“ _I_ think you’re hot,” Eddie tells him, as if he hasn’t told him so a thousand times before. “And gross. At the same time. God, _fuck.”_ He arches as Richie pulls off Eddie’s sweater and curls down to suck on one nipple through his t-shirt. “I’m the dweeb in the polo shirts, moron.”

“You’re a hot dweeb,” Richie tells him, running his fingernails lightly up Eddie’s side. “Fucking sexy as hell. Want me to fuck you, baby? I want to fuck you so bad.”

Eddie groans and pushes his thumb into Richie’s mouth, the sensation of him sucking on it shooting straight to his dick. “God, yeah. You sure? I can fuck you.”

“No, I need to get inside you. Fucking hot.” Richie kisses him hard. “God. Need to feel you around me.”

“Yeah. Shit.” Eddie feels like he’s burning up. “Come on. Get the lube, I’m going to lose my mind.”

Richie grins, and kisses him again, and then gets up to struggle out of his pants and find the lube where Eddie stashed it next to the bed. Eddie shifts himself up to the headboard, sliding his hand into his underwear to squeeze his hardening cock. Richie’s is still only half-hard when he kicks off his boxers, but it’s still deliciously thick and long. God, the things Eddie would do to get that dick inside him. 

Richie looks around for a second, like he thinks he might have forgotten something, and then he freezes, and looks thoughtful. He turns to Eddie. “Get naked.”

Eddie snorts, but pulls off his shirt and his underwear obligingly. “How’s this?”

“Perfect,” Richie says, eyes dark and hungry. “Sit up.”

Eddie does, his gaze glued to Richie. He has that effect on people. 

“Good boy,” Richie says. It’s warranted—Eddie almost never listens to him without talking back. “Scoot forward.”

Eddie decides it’s in his best interest to listen to him, because anticipation is crackling through their room like electricity. “What are we doing?”

Richie climbs onto the bed, and maneuvers himself behind Eddie, up against the headboard, his chest to Eddie’s back, thick thighs on either side of Eddie’s hips. He settles, gets comfortable, wraps an arm around Eddie’s waist, and then points in front of them. 

There, on the wall opposite them, is the dark oak drawer set, and above it, the massive mirror. “Oh,” Eddie breathes, looking at their reflection in it. They look disheveled, and horny, and hot as _hell_. Richie’s forearm is starkly pale against Eddie’s stomach. Richie’s eyes are dark and hungry, even from a distance. Eddie watches his own cock leak precome onto his thigh. “Fuck.”

“Mmm. Watch.” Richie’s strong hands grab at Eddie’s thighs, spread them farther apart, so that they’re hooked over Richie’s legs. Eddie goes hot at how he looks in the mirror, spread out wantonly, mouth red and hanging open. Richie hums appreciatively, fingertips trailing over Eddie’s stomach, up the underside of his cock. 

Eddie has to swallow hard. “You’re gonna finger me like this?”

“Yeah,” Richie says, voice low and dark. “Want you to see it. So fucking hot.”

Eddie can barely stand it. The sight of himself, sprawled out shamelessly on Richie’s lap, with Richie behind him, watching him, holding him. And then seeing Richie coat his fingers with lube, dripping it messily over his hand, getting it everywhere because he can’t stop looking at the mirror, looking at Eddie, looking at the two of them. He uses his clean hand to spread Eddie’s legs even wider, his hand strong on Eddie’s thigh. Eddie watches, breathlessly, as two fingers slide down to his hole. 

“Fuck,” Eddie breathes, watching them press in even as he feels it. His eyes flick down to where it’s actually happening, but he can’t really see it, can’t see the way he’s stretching open around Richie’s fingers. He looks back at the mirror, and moans at the sight, Richie smiling hungrily and then turning his head to kiss along Eddie’s neck, his fingers disappearing into Eddie slowly. “Richie, what the fuck.”

“God, yeah, I fucking know.” Richie fingers him slowly, showily, his hand moving exaggeratedly as he presses in deep and pulls back out. He slides his fingers out, rubs his slick fingertips around Eddie’s rim, pushes in so agonizingly slowly that Eddie wants to scream, but can’t, because he’s fucking _enraptured._ “Christ, Eds, you could be a fucking pornstar.”

Eddie laughs breathlessly, arching his back a little, just for show. “Who the fuck would watch that?”

“ _Me,_ shit, I’d watch that shit every single day, I’d chafe my dick getting off on that,” Richie says, rutting his cock up against the small of Eddie’s back, leaving a sticky trail of precome there. 

“I fucking live with you, dumbass.” Eddie groans as Richie scissors his fingers apart, stretching him, and nearly loses his mind at the sight of Richie’s forearm flexing and Eddie’s own abs tensing. “ _Shit._ ” 

“I know you live with me, that’s why I want to fuck you _all the time.”_ Richie’s free hand smooths up and down Eddie’s thigh, over his stomach, squeezes his cock gently. Eddie shivers against him. “Feel good, babe?”

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes, licking his dry lips. “Feels so good.”

“Look at you,” Richie says, voice low and rough just next to his ear. “So fucking hot. That’s my future trophy husband right there.”

Eddie can’t help the grin that spreads across his face, hips shifting restlessly as Richie slides a third finger into him. “Fuck yeah.”

“Hey,” Richie says, and Eddie’s eyes flick to his face in the mirror. He looks so fucking proud, so deeply content, like he’s exactly where he’s always wanted to be, and it goes straight to Eddie’s gut. _God,_ he loves this motherfucker.

“Huh?” he says belatedly, shuddering as Richie rubs over his prostate. 

Richie grins. “Kiss me.”

It hurts Eddie’s neck, so they can’t do it for long, but he’s more than happy to turn his head as far as it’ll go to crush his mouth clumsily against Richie’s. His chest swells with it, so happy it kind of hurts, here on this bed with this man he’s stupidly in love with. Who would have ever thought? 

Somehow, it’s almost a shock when he pulls away from Richie’s mouth and turns back to look at the mirror and sees them there again. For a moment he’s not focusing on any specific thing, not on Richie’s fingers sinking into him or the difference in size between them or the looks on their faces, but just. _Them._ Together. And it hits Eddie suddenly, fiercely, the shock of it. Him, here, with Richie. With a _man._ Something Eddie wasn’t sure he’d ever see. And just, seeing himself sprawled out and wanton and panting, having sex, _enjoying_ sex. Another thing he thought he might never do, not like this. Another thing he thought might just be out of reach for him. But he’s here, it’s happening, it’s happening with _Richie,_ and fuck. He’s just so fucking happy. 

“Eddie?” Richie says softly, kissing the side of his neck. “You with me?”

Eddie notices that Richie’s stopped moving, holding him carefully. “Yeah,” he says, swallowing hard, grinding down against Richie’s hand. “Yeah, I’m with you.”

“Good,” Richie hums. “Ride my fingers a little.”

“Oh, fuck.” But Eddie does it, planting his feet against the bed and leaning up against Richie’s chest to rock his hips, feeling Richie’s thick fingers pushing into him, fucking him just right. “You’re very bossy today,” he grits out, trying to get Richie’s fingers to rub against him, grinding them in deep. 

“I just got engaged,” Richie says, rubbing his free hand over Eddie’s chest and stomach. “I’m allowed to live out my sex fantasies.”

“I just got engaged too, dickwad,” Eddie says on a laugh, but keeps riding Richie’s fingers, because for the most part, Richie’s sex fantasies are pretty damn close to Eddie’s. 

“Yeah, that’s why I’m going to _fuck you,”_ Richie says. “God, you’re so hot. Are you ready? Do you want to sit on my dick now?”

Eddie really, really does. 

They’re going to have to move from this position eventually, with Eddie sitting in Richie’s lap, legs spread. It’s not really conducive to any kind of movement, much less the kind of good, deep fucking Eddie’s looking for. All it really has going for it is the way he can see everything happening in the mirror, but that alone makes it worth trying, for now. And, as an added bonus, Eddie is so limited in his range of movement and leverage that Richie has to kind of manhandle him to get Eddie where he wants him, and it’s _really_ hot. God, he’s strong, and for no reason. 

Right now, Richie is slicking up his cock where it’s still pressing against Eddie’s lower back, and then fumbling for his discarded shirt to wipe off his hands, and then he’s reaching around to grip Eddie’s thighs, warm and firm. Eddie swallows hard, watches raptly in the mirror as they work together to lift him up. Richie scoots down a little at the same time, and Eddie feels his cock bumping up against his ass, nudging between his cheeks. Eddie’s breath hitches in his throat. No matter how many times they do this, it’s still fucking incredible—as in good, but also as in unbelievable—every time. That he gets to _do this._ And that it feels so good. 

He reaches down to slide Richie’s cock into place himself, but moves his hand away quickly, because it obstructs his view. His breaths come fast and hard as he watches in the mirror, the way Richie’s cock breaches him, spreads him open, sinks into him bit by bit. He wants to close his eyes, savour the feeling, the sensation of Richie filling him up, but he can’t. He needs to watch. He needs to see how it looks. 

“Oh, holy shit,” he breathes, feeling Richie’s cock twitch inside him, seeing how much is still left. His legs are shaking, but Richie’s holding him steady. “Rich, fuck.”

“I know,” Richie groans, watching from behind him. “Why do you think I’m always taking pictures?”

“Can you show them to me?” Eddie asks, a little urgently. “Not now, but later?”

“ _Fuck_ , yeah, of course. God, Eds, you feel so good. You feel so tight and wet.”

Eddie moans, sinking down on his cock, watching it disappear into him. He looks so slutty, getting fucked like this, all on display. It’s unbearably hot. His mouth is watering, watching the way his rim stretches around Richie’s cock, the way his cock settles deep and satisfying inside him. God, he wishes the mirror was closer. 

All they really manage in this position is a slow, deep grind, but even that is good as hell. Eddie pants out quick breaths as he rolls his hips, watches they way his thighs flex and his cock leaks and Richie’s cock stuffs him full. Behind him, Richie is strong and broad and fucking hot, still holding onto his thighs to keep him steady as he fucks into him, groaning and breathing hotly against his shoulder. 

“Good, baby?” he asks breathlessly. “You like it?”

Eddie was so focussed he forgot to say anything. “Yeah, fuck, Richie.” He bites his lip as Richie grinds in deep. “It’s so good, it’s so hot. Love the way you fuck me.”

Richie groans out his agreement and then lets go of Eddie with one hand, lets him settle into his lap as Richie scoops up lube leaking out of him with two fingers. And Eddie expects him to use it to slick up Eddie’s cock, to start jacking him off, but instead he presses the tip of his first finger against Eddie’s rim, rubs over it, presses right into the crease there where he’s fucking into him. 

“Richie,” Eddie breathes, swallowing hard, heart rabbitting. “Oh, fuck, Rich—”

“Yeah, Eds, come on,” Richie says. “You want it?”

Eddie can’t speak, already stretched tight and thin on Richie’s cock. He nods. 

It’s so fucking much, _too much_ , watching and feeling Richie press a finger into him alongside his cock. It doesn’t _hurt_ , but it burns a little, the stretch of it. Richie’s cock is _big,_ and Eddie’s been taking it for months, but he’s never taken anything bigger. It’s overwhelming, and it’s fucking hot, and Eddie feels like he’s going to die. 

“Holy shit,” he says, voice choked. “Richie, fuck, _Rich.”_

“Okay?” Richie asks, holding tight onto him around his waist, pressing deeper into him. 

“Yeah, fuck, keep going. _Shit.”_ Eddie’s thighs are shaking. “I like it, it’s so good. Rich, I’m such a fucking size queen, what the hell.”

Richie huffs a laugh against his shoulder, sliding his finger back and then deeper in again. “I know, Eds, I love it.”

“Feels like I’m gonna shatter,” Eddie says. “Like you’re taking me apart from the inside.”

“I hope that’s a good thing.”

“Yeah, I don’t know, it fucking _is.”_ Eddie blows out a strained, overwhelmed breath, and his eyes sting with tears. “Rich, I’m so fucking lucky. I’m gonna marry you.”

Richie makes a sound like a choked sob. “Can we move?” he says. “I can’t fuck you like this.”

“Yeah, shit, I’ve seen enough.” Or maybe Eddie is just scared he’s about to see himself cry on Richie’s dick. Whatever.

Richie pulls his finger out carefully, grips Eddie’s thighs. “Lift up,” he says. “Ride me a little.”

Eddie groans, and not in a turned on kind of way. “Rich, my knees—”

“Trust me,” Richie says, laughing a little. “Come on.”

Eddie huffs a sigh, but he pulls himself off Richie’s dick with some effort, and then lets Richie get more comfortable half-leaning against the headboard before turning, at last, away from the mirror to face him, straddling his lap, reaching back to guide his cock back into his hole. It feels just as good pushing in a second time, only now Eddie has more control, can rock his hips so that Richie’s cock slides over his prostate just right. He moans softly, hands on Richie’s shoulders, and seats himself fully on his cock, lets it settle thick and deep inside him. 

“There you go,” Richie hums, looking up at him, openly turned on and fond in equal parts. “You like that?”

“The fact that you still feel like you need to ask that—”

“I don’t ask because I don’t know the answer,” Richie says with a breathless laugh. “I just like hearing you say it.”

Eddie can’t help but smile, leaning in to kiss Richie firmly, one hand on his stubbly jaw, rocking back on his cock at the same time. “I do like it, which you already know,” he breathes against his mouth. “Love the way you feel in me. Big and thick and hot.” 

Richie moans in response. “What about this,” he says, and slides one finger back into him, easier now in this position. 

“Oh, _shit,_ ” Eddie hisses, squirming on it, arching his back. “Fuck, Rich, that’s so much.”

“Yeah, Christ, Eds. Another?” 

Eddie goes dizzy just thinking about it. “Hell yeah.”

It’s a bit of work, a lot of slow back-and-forth and a lot of hissing and extra lube, but Richie gets a second finger into him, and then, with tears prickling at Eddie’s eyes and pathetic sounds falling from his mouth, a third. 

“Richie, oh my fucking god,” Eddie says, voice wrecked, fingertips digging into Richie’s shoulders. “I’m going to lose my mind.”

Richie smiles up at him beatifically, and then cranes his head around and says, “You should see how it looks from the back, Eds. Fucking beautiful.”

Eddie shakes his head, breathing through the incredible stretch, feeling so full and so out of control and taken care of and so _fucking_ incandescent. Every single nerve ending in his body is lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, and every time Richie moves or Eddie twitches his hips he makes punched-out sounds. Richie’s barely even fucking him, just stretching him wide, letting him really feel it.

“Does this even feel good for you?” Eddie asks on a gasp, grinding back onto his cock and fingers. 

“Feels good to look at you,” Richie says, stroking his thumb over the skin above his rim. “Happy to take my time.”

Eddie’s eyes blur with overwhelmed tears. “God, what the fuck, how are you so good?” He wipes his face quickly. “Stop being so cute when I’m, like, on the brink of a dick-induced breakdown.”

Richie laughs softly, reaches up with his free hand to wipe under his eyes with his thumb. “I’m sorry, I’ll be less cute from now on.”

“No, you do it on accident, and that’s what I hate.” Eddie sniffs, shakes his head. “I think I’m ready to be fucked now.”

“God, what have I been doing until now, if not fucking you?”

“Sorry, I’m ready to be _railed_ now.”

And Richie laughs again, louder, and slowly slides his fingers out of Eddie’s hole. Eddie groans at the sensation. “Okay,” he says. “How do you want it?”

What Eddie _wants_ is to be fucked six ways to Sunday, in every conceivable position. But instead of saying that—they have a lifetime to attempt it, after all—he just says, “Let me get on my stomach, and then you can just go to town.”

“Eddie, sometimes you say shit and I am just filled with the weirdest, horniest love for you,” Richie sighs. 

Eddie grins and lifts himself off Richie’s dick and moves to lie down in the opposite direction, with his face at the foot of the bed, a pillow clutched in his arms. This way, if he wants to, he can lift his head to look into the mirror to watch. For now, he just buries his face in his pillowcase—brought from home, because he’s neurotic—and says, “Come at me, fucker.”

And the wonderful thing is, Richie _does._ He requires no more prompting or goading. He climbs up over top of Eddie and slides into him without another word, starts up a quick, deep rhythm. Eddie groans softly, this sensation of Richie fucking into him so different from the deep press from earlier. It’s erotic and satisfying in way that’s less intense, more blooming. A pleasure that starts there inside him and builds outwards, into his gut and thighs and spine. His cock rubs up against the bedsheets, and that’s enough for now, makes high sounds spill out of his throat. 

“There you go,” Richie says, voice hitching on every thrust. “There you go, is that good? Fuck, you feel amazing.”

“Yeah,” Eddie gasps. “So fucking good.”

“You’re so hot,” Richie says, like he’s still in awe of it, even though he’s said it a thousand times. He braces one hand against the mattress for leverage, uses the other to stroke up Eddie’s back, across his shoulders. “So fucking sexy. Love fucking you, making you feel good.”

God, and isn’t that just wild? That someone wants to make Eddie feel good? It destroys Eddie every time. “Rich, make me come,” he grinds out, “I want to come.”

“Yeah,” Richie says, and lays himself down across Eddie’s back, presses up against him, kisses the back of his neck as he slides his hands under Eddie’s chest to hold him close. Movement is a little more limited like this, but he can still fuck Eddie deep, hips moving quick and restless, and Eddie likes the way Richie’s body covers him, the way the softness of his stomach fits into the dip of Eddie’s back when he settles in to grind deep. Eddie gasps into it, spreads his legs wider, clenches around his cock. Richie is fucking him so well, knows exactly how to do it, knows exactly how Eddie likes it and how to read him. 

“God, just keep doing this,” Eddie moans, shuddering with pleasure. “Can you just keep doing this forever?”

Richie laughs against the nape of his neck. “Not without breaks,” he says, “but I can do this very regularly until I inevitably throw my back out.”

Eddie snorts into his pillow, lifts his chin for a glimpse of them in the mirror. He can’t see much—the angle’s bad and Richie’s covering everything that’s going on—but it’s still something, to see Richie on top of him, moving against him. Eddie sighs, shifts his hips in time with Richie’s thrusts, makes vague, ecstatic sounds. 

It’s a slow build from there, rather than a quick, explosive climax. Eddie feels it coming from a mile away, milks every drop of pleasure from the build-up, feels the sweet, heavy sensation of it settle in his tongue and his knees. He doesn’t say much, focusing on how it feels, how Richie feels inside of him and on top of him and moving against him. Hot and heavy and slick. Richie whispers nonsense into his ear, endearments and meaningless filth and encouragement, and Eddie only half hears him, busy trying to get Richie to thumb at his nipples without saying anything. 

And then Eddie can feel his orgasm close and rising, and his breath quickens, and Richie says, “Yeah, fuck, come on, you close?”

Eddie nods frantically, pressing up against him, and Richie lifts up, lets Eddie rise enough that they can both get their hands around his cock, fingers tangling together around the shaft. They stroke him together, quick and relentless, and Eddie makes a gasping _ah-ah-ah_ noise, and then he comes hard, powerfully, the kind of orgasm that rocks through him in waves and leaves his joints tingling and his vision fuzzy. A wounded sound crawls out of his throat, and he feels his cock pulsing feebly as Richie continues fucking him, chasing his own climax. 

“Come on, Rich, you can come, you made me feel so good,” Eddie slurs, trying to clench around him weakly. “You deserve it, you did so good, I want you to come.”

“How,” Richie gasps, fucking him there where he’s oversensitive. 

“Inside me,” Eddie says, knowing it’s the answer he wants. He can’t stop squirming, the feeling of Richie inside him almost too much, almost painful. “Deep inside me, fill me up.”

“Yeah. Fuck. Lift up on your knees a bit, face down.”

Eddie does, and realizes why a moment later when he glances up—it gives Richie a better view in the mirror, so that he can see all the way along Eddie’s back to his ass, where Richie’s fucking into him. 

“ _God_ , you’re fucking hot,” Richie says, sounding a little manic with it as he thrusts fast and sloppy. “So fucking slutty. And I get to _marry this._ ” 

Eddie grins lazily into his pillow, still breathing hard. “I’m more than just a hot piece of ass, you dick.”

“Yeah, I _know_ , you’re a whole fucking meal, what the _fuck._ What a _gift.”_

Eddie’s grin widens. “If you come, I’ll give you a hickey to seal the deal,” he says. “A huge, fucking visible one.”

“Oh, shit,” Richie gasps. “Possessive.”

“That’s _my_ future husband,” Eddie says, and clenches around him as best as he can. 

“Fuck,” Richie says, then comes with a winded groan, pressing in deep, hips stuttering. Eddie moans at the wet warmth of it, soothing the sharp ache inside him, and lets Richie collapse on top of him, just taking everything. 

They just lie there, breaths heaving, for a really long time. Eddie feels gross and exhausted and he’s lying in his own wet patch and there’s come and lube dripping out of him and Richie is crushing his lungs, but he’s too tired to say anything, to complain. So he just takes it. 

“Guhhhhh,” Richie says after a what might be a minute or possibly an hour. “Eddie.”

“What,” Eddie mutters, halfway to falling asleep like this. 

“You still alive down there?” Richie’s mouth finds the side of his neck, and he kisses Eddie gently. “Still breathing or did I fuck you to death?”

“Still breathing,” Eddie confirms, breathing in as deep as he can with Richie on top of him. 

“Was it good?” Richie asks, always desperate for affirmation. 

Eddie laughs a little. “Yeah, Richie, it was really good. Fucked my brains out.”

“Good,” Richie says, deeply satisfied. “Now give me that hickey. I want it to be _huge.”_

Eddie scoffs. “Our friends are getting here tomorrow. They’re gonna see it.” As if it wasn’t his own idea.

“Yeah, I fucking know. I want them all to see, and I want them all to feel uncomfortable, thinking about us fucking and not knowing for sure where it happened.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “You’re a fucking dumbass.”

“I’m _your_ fucking dumbass,” Richie says, and Eddie doesn’t need to see his face to know he has a huge, shit-eating grin on it. “Now give me a hickey. I’ll eat you out in the morning if you do.”

Eddie makes a sound that’s half moan, half contemplative hum. “You always use that as a bargaining chip.”

“Yeah, because it always works. Just like our first time.” Richie sounds wistful. “Up. Hickey. Stat.”

“You have to get off of me for that,” Eddie says. 

Richie just laughs. 

Tomorrow, things will be different again. Tomorrow, they’ll have had some time to process, and they’ll be looking at this all in the light of day, and they’ll be _engaged_ , but they’ll still have shit to deal with. But their friends will be here. And Richie will have eaten Eddie out in the morning. And Richie will have a massive hickey to show off instead of a ring. 

So Eddie supposes everything’s going to be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> @ my twitter crew i love u.


End file.
